The Games We Play - Chapter 17: Chapter 17

The air smells like rain-soaked asphalt and damp leaves, and my sneakers are already soaked from the puddles Scarlett keeps walking me through. It's overcast, like the weather can sense my sour mood—but it's kind of nice.
Still. Serene.
Too fucking early, though.
"You do realize this is inhumane, right?" I say, jogging a little to catch up with her.
Scar doesn't even glance my way, her pace unrelenting. "You're the one who asked to come."
"Because I was worried about you!" I exclaim, gesturing dramatically. "Breakups are dangerous. People do crazy shit when they're heartbroken. Like shaved their head. Join yoga cults. Or worse—an actual cult."
That earns me a small snort as Scarlett finally slows her pace, glancing at me. "That's what you're worried about?"
"Actually—true. You'd become their leader in like a day." I shake my head as Scar grins at me. "But I'm just saying—you've been suspiciously quiet since Logan. And I know you're not a big talker, but..."
Scar rolls her eyes, but there's a small smile on her face. "I'm still fine, Cam—just like when you bombarded me in the shower last night. I'm not about to spiral."
"Good," I reply, nodding. "Because I'd probably follow you to that cult, and I don't know what I'd do if those robes didn't match my color wheel."
Scar's beautiful face lights up at my awful attempt at diffusing the situation.
We continue down the paved trail winding along the edge of Ramsey Creek Park, the morning quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves or the faint chirp of a bird.
The recent rain has left the path dotted with puddles, some of them mirroring the overcast sky above. A light mist hangs in the air, clinging to my skin and making my hairline damp under my hoodie.
It kind of feels like I'm in a watercolor painting.
There's the lake, still and glassy in the muted light. There are the trees, remnants of last night's rain dripping from their branches. There are other people out here too—joggers and dog walkers and early risers.
And then there's Jude groaning and moaning and ruining the peaceful ambiance.
"Why the fuck am I here?"
I turn to see Jude dragging himself forward like he's on the final stretch of a marathon. His oversized hoodie is practically swallowing him, and he's hunched over like damn Quasimodo.
"You're here for moral support," I say cheerfully, ignoring his death glare.
Jude stops walking, throwing his arms out dramatically. "I think I've pulled something. My calf. My soul."
"Aw, if only you had one," Scarlett says with a teasing grin.
"Aw—fuck you," Jude replies sarcastically, flipping both of us off with two hands.
I snicker, shaking my head at him as we round a corner. Scarlett sighs softly beside me, her smile fading a little. I eye her quietly for a while, stewing on an idea while biting my lip.
I bump into her. "So... since you're newly single and fine or whatever you're telling yourself—then you have absolutely no excuse for not coming out tonight after the game!"
Scarlett groans, rolling her eyes. "Cam, I don't—"
"Oh no, no, no, my sweet flower child. No excuses," I say, cutting her off. "I'm talking drinks, dancing, bad decisions—everything you deserve."
Jude perks up instantly, jogging to catch up with us. "Are we scheming? Are there plans? Are there drugs involved?"
Scar frowns at him.
I nod. "Potentially."
"Cam."
I sigh. "Okay, no drugs—"
I quickly pause to not-so-subtly nod at a mortified Jude, which instantly calms him.
"You're hot, you're single, and you're hitting the clubs." I intertwine my fingers in prayer. "Don't make your beautiful and kind and sexy best friend get on her knees and beg."
"I'd like to see that," Jude smirks. "You groveling might just make walking in the middle of the night worth it."
It's just after six in the morning—which is basically midnight for Jude anyway.
"I don't grovel," I reply with a smirk. "But I do plan. Game first, drinks after, then we're getting that sweet, sweet ass tapped."
Scar scoffs. "God, you're no better than a man."
"This is true." I nod.
"Girlies, I am so excited!" Jude shakes us by the shoulder. "What's the dress code—I'm thinking leather—tight and tiny as possible."
"I'm thinking no," Scarlett snaps as Jude rolls his eyes and slowly slips off our shoulders.
I sigh. "Just wear what you want, Scar. You'll look real sexy either way."
Jude chuckles at me. "Shit—do you want to pimp her out or sleep with her, Cam? Make up your mind."
"I honestly don't know anymore," I shrug truthfully, as both Jude and Scar laugh, the three of us continuing on our walk through the trail.
☆☆☆☆
I genuinely believe I would commit federal-level crimes if someone offered me free food.
The second I heard "free cupcakes," the rest of the sentence faded, and I was already agreeing to an after-game alumni event that the Colts had planned for its VIP guests.
The game ended in a roar of cheers that practically shook the stadium.
From our seats in the VIP suite, we had a perfect view of the final play, the scoreboard flashing Colts 34 - Cougars 29.
It was fourth and goal, less than a minute on the clock, and the Cougars' defense had been holding strong. The tension in the air was so thick you could practically choke on it. But then Wes took the snap, his movements quick and precise as he dropped back, scanning the field.
Rome Booker was already moving, cutting through the defense like a knife through butter. The ball spiraled through the air—perfect, clean, and fast—and landed squarely in Rome's hands as he dove into the end zone.
Touchdown. Game over.
The energy was contagious, even from up high, and I found myself grinning along with my friends as Rome did his iconic touchdown celebration of placing an invisible crown on his head.
Rome Booker. The King.
And then we were being escorted down to the underbelly of the stadium, a maze of concrete and Trueblue walls. The halls buzzed with staff, reporters, and players as we were funneled into a lounge-like space tucked just off the main hallway.
The room was decked out in Colts branding—banners hanging from the ceiling, walls covered in framed jerseys, and the faint hum of post-game interviews playing on screens everywhere.
Long tables were set up with snacks, drinks, and plenty of Colt-blue cupcakes, and a handful of players were already mingling with fans.
"Oooooh, this is noiiiiiiice," Tasha exclaims as she prances into the room, the rest of us following behind. "Girl. It don't smell like roaches in here or nothing."
It's some kind of meet-and-greet, that much is clear. And I could only hope Wes is too preoccupied with post-game interviews to come to something like this.
I would rather be waterboarded to death than let him see me happy because of something he gave me.
Besides—his over-inflated ego would pop his head like a pimple, and I'd be blamed for ruining the Colts' season.
"Look at this," Liam says, gesturing toward a table laden with cupcakes frosted in Colts blue. "You think these are free?"
"I don't know..." Tasha says while eyeing the table. "But try to eat as many before they kick us out."
Liam nods like a soldier receiving orders from a commander.
"Guys, everything is free," I try to say, but it falls on deaf ears, the two of them already going to town on the tower.
The rest of us leave the couple shoveling cupcakes into their mouths, snagging snacks and drinks before regrouping at a high-top table near the edge of the room. I almost teeter off my stool, Jude catching me and steadying me as the both of us giggle.
Scarlett appears moments later, running a hand through her blonde hair while looking quite pissed. I mean—Scarlett always looks pissed with her perpetual bitch face, but I know when something's irked her.
Jude scoffs while licking icing off his finger. "Damn—you good, girlie?"
"Yeah." Scarlett exhales with a smile. "How are the cupcakes?"
"Sweet," I answer Scarlett, although I'm still wary.
My eyes begin to glance around the room, hoping to figure out what's got her so perturbed. And then my gaze lands on a certain asshole in a navy Ralph Lauren polo.
Oh no.
Scarlett keeps her smile steady. "Don't make eye contact."
I glance back to her. "I didn't—" My eyes slide back to him and his tiny group, and of course Logan is looking back at me with a smirk. "Okay, now I have."
"Cam."
"What? What?" Jude asks as he lifts his hips out of the chair slightly to get a better look at the room. "What are you guys—oh fuck."
"It's fine. We knew the risk." Scarlett shakes her head. "Just ignore him—he'll hate that more than anything. Out of sight, out of mind."
"We'll drink about it later, baby," Jude says as he pats Scarlett on the shoulder with a big grin.
As we settle into a lighter conversation, laughing over Tasha's running commentary on the other guests as she points out any and everyone who's played for the Colts, the hum of the room shifts.
It's subtle at first, just a ripple of movement as heads turn toward the entrance.
And then I see him.
Wes, still in his game-day sweats, damp hair falling messily over his forehead as he strides into the room. His gaze scans the space, lingering for a moment on a group of fans who wave excitedly at him. But then his eyes lock on mine, and everything else seems to fade.
My stomach flips, and I immediately look away, focusing on everyone at my table. But they're all obsessed with Wes too, and I fall face-first into my palm.
I'm totally fine with them looking at him—obsessing over him—but I feel like if I so much as look at him, everyone in this room will figure out what's going on between us.
Wes doesn't make it halfway across the room before he's swarmed by groups of people.
It's like watching a magnet in action—the way people naturally gravitate toward him, all smiles and outstretched hands.
He handles it all so easily, shaking hands, laughing at something someone says, leaning down to pose for a selfie with a girl who barely comes up to his chest. His charm is infuriating. Professional, smooth, and somehow sincere.
And yet, every few seconds, his gaze flicks back to me.
He's talking to someone—his eyes are on me. He's taking a photo with someone—his eyes are on me.
It becomes unbearable in a room with nowhere to hide.
I huff out a quiet sigh, the air in my lungs feeling too thick. I slip off my stool and head across the room to the table of snacks and beverages.
The spread is impressive—cut fruit arranged like a rainbow, rows of sliders, an unnecessarily complicated charcuterie board. But I stop at the drinks, faced with a crisis of choice: still or sparkling water?
I pick up a bottle and screw up my face. "...Spicy bubbles."
"I ain't ever heard it be called that before," a voice laughs at my side, warm and deep, and it scares the absolute shit out of me.
I glance up, and up, and up.
It's Elroy Biggs, the Colts' left tackle, and he's appropriately enormous. Built like a brick wall, with shoulders that look like they could block the entire sun, and a quiet intensity. Dark, perfectly clear skin and big round eyes and an adorable chubby face.
His name suits him, but his expression doesn't match his size—soft, almost shy, as he glances down at me.
Elroy shakes his head. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's okay." I smile up at him. "Sometimes my inside thoughts aren't as inside as they should be."
"I like that though. Spicy bubbles," Elroy says, glancing down at the water bottle in his own hand—it looks so damn tiny.
I laugh, twisting the cap off my bottle of still water. "One time my waiter poured sparkling water into my glass, I didn't know, and it scared the hell out of me the second I took a sip. I was like a damn fountain."
"What?"
"It went all over my date," I say, shaking my head as he smiles softly. "Safe to say there was no second date after that."
He starts laughing, and I put a hand to my mouth, sudden realization and embarrassment raining down over me.
I just don't shut up. Ever! Ugh.
I put a hand on his huge forearm, "Oh my g—I'm so sorry. I don't know why I just told you that."
I know exactly why. Those three vodka-cranberries I had in the VIP lounge loosened my lips more than I expected.
"Nah, it's fine." Elroy shrugs. "I'm a listener."
"Yeah? That's a real good quality to have." I smile up at him softly and notice the slightest shade difference in his ebony cheeks. How cute—he's blushing. "Unfortunately for everyone—I'm a yapper."
"I don't mind."
"Hey—we're all here to meet you boys, to listen to you." I giggle softly as he gives me a crooked smile. "But this ain't your scene, is it?"
"Not really." He scratches the back of his neck. "Our media team created the list of players that had to come to this thing, and we didn't get a say."
"Well, I'm glad you're here," I say kindly, wanting to help him out because I can basically feel the nerves buzzing from this guy. "I'm Cam, by the way."
Elroy's eyes almost burst from his skull. "Oh, you're—"
A hand lands on his shoulder.
"Man, you told me you were just hitting the snacks table, and here y'all are making best friends?" Wes says as he rounds the big guy to stand between us with a cheeky grin.
"Yep, we are," I say with a smile when Elroy buffers for a second. "Elroy is a great listener. You should take notes."
"Hey, I like to listen."
"To the sound of your own voice, we know," I scoff as both him and Elroy grin at me.
"Okay, okay." Wes rolls his eyes with a smirk. "So what are y'all talking about?"
"Spicy bubbles," Elroy replies with a small smile, his eyes instantly shooting to me, and I return it.
"Inside joke," I answer Wes' confused frown. "You wouldn't get it."
"Biggs!" a voice calls from across the room, and Elroy visibly winces. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, trying to hide the amused smile slowly forming.
He huffs. "Dear Lord."
"It was nice talking to you, Elroy." I nod at him, and he gives me a small little smile in return before turning from the snacks table and walking back into the room that is progressively becoming more and more hectic.
Once he disappears into the crowd, Wes slides into my view with his arms crossed and a shit-eating grin on his face.
I frown. "What?"
"You're really on a mission to get my whole team to fall in love with you, ain't you?" Wes says with a teasing grin that I brush off instantly.
I shrug. "Haven't met your whole team yet."
"Cute." Wes says, and I giggle, turning back to the food table as I begin to load some pieces of fruit onto a napkin. "I'm real fucking glad you're here tonight, Cam.""
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"We ran a little late—I just couldn't seem to find my Colts jersey. I swear looked everywhere." I say as I send a sharp, knowing glance at Wes.
He scratches the back of his neck, looks out across the room, and whistles casually.
"Well, for what it's worth, I'm glad I'm here too, you played well," I admit, brushing off the whole missing jersey thing, and Wes' gaze snaps back to me immediately with a grin. "Really well."
He exhales. "Shit—I think earning a compliment like that from you means more than the Heisman. More work too."
"Wes," I scoff and shove a grape into my mouth, "You're a great player—if you want to know what I thought of your game, just ask me."
Wes stops for a little, kind of blocking me from continuing my way down the snack table, and just stares at me with those big blue eyes. Always fucking staring.
My mouth is full of grapes when I ask him, "What?"
He's about to say something, but my eyes slide from his and focus on two bodies behind him. The mingling crowd is in the way, but I spot them nonetheless. There by a white, blue and silver balloon arch, slid in behind and out of everyone's view.
Scarlett and Logan, talking off to the side, clearly in an argument.
He's super touchy, and she keeps pulling away from him.
It's great.
But it's not enough. I need her to kick him in the balls.
"You good?" Wes' voice floats into focus as he begins to turn around to see what I'm so transfixed by.
I stop him before he turns, "Yep. All good."
"Okay..." Wes scoffs at me as I take another flicker back to Scarlett and Logan to see her running a frustrated hand through is hair while he grins at her arrogantly.
I swear to god, if she gets back with that slimy motherfucker...I'm going to commit those federal crimes and I won't even need the free cupcakes.
I'm too focused on them that I hadn't even felt Wes' large hands slide on my waist as he tugs me into him. My hands land on his chest. His head dips down and his volume lowers.
"Yours or mine?"
I blink up at him as his words register.
"Uh—neither," I scoff, folding my arms to create space between us. "I'm going out to ensure Scarlett moves on, and you have to stay here tending to your fans—which you are currently doing a terrible job at, by the way."
"I don't know—I think I'm doing a great job tending to my number one fan," Wes says, leaning in with that infuriating smirk of his that magically has my panties slipping down my legs.
I roll my eyes and scoff, "Okay."
I take a step back from him, his hands falling from my waist begrudgingly and he stretches out his arms to pretend like he didn't just reach for me a second time. Real smooth.
"Where are you going then?"
"There's a house party on Sycamore Row," I say with a small shrug, "And when that turns out to be the disappointment it always is, we'll probably head to Sticky's."
His lips twitch like he's holding back a laugh. "Sticky's, huh? You go there often?"
"Sticky's is iconic," I argue, pointing a piece of cantaloupe at him like it's a weapon. "It's cheap, loud, and questionable in every possible way. That's the appeal."
He snorts. "Damn—you're really selling it."
That makes me laugh, and he joins me.
Sticky's is exactly what it is—sticky, cheap shots and music so loud it rattles your bones. Perfect for a messy night out.
But he doesn't look as amused as I am.
He's leaning forward slightly, his head dropping to meet my gaze.
"Call me when you wanna leave," he says, and his voice is softer now, but there's a sharpness to it that makes me pause.
I laugh, shaking my head. "What?"
"When you're ready to leave," he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument, "you call me, and I'll come pick you up."
"Are you serious?" I ask, blinking at him.
"Serious as a heart attack, baby," he says, his gaze steady, the teasing grin gone.
I scoff, trying to brush it off. "Wes, I can just call an Uber. I'm a grown woman. I don't need a chauffeur."
"I ain't joking, Cam," he says, leaning closer. His voice lowers just enough to send a shiver down my spine. "I want you to call me."
My lips part, but the words don't come. It's not just what he's saying—it's the way he's looking at me. Like he's daring me to say no. Like it matters.
I try to break the tension with a laugh. "What, you're just gonna drop everything and come pick me up from a seedy student bar at 2 a.m.?"
"Fuck yes," he says simply, without hesitation.
"You'll be tired."
"Not for you."
I stare at him, trying to figure out why he's so insistent, why it feels like there's something heavier behind his words.
But he doesn't budge.
"Ugh! Fine." I run a frustrated hand through my hair and point a piece of melon on a toothpick at him. "But if I'm waiting around while you take your time waking yourself up—you're going to pay for my Uber, and then I'm going to strangle you."
He beams brightly now. "I'll be up."
I roll my eyes at his stupid wide grin, my focus already slipping across the room.
It's subtle at first—a shift in the atmosphere, a ripple through the crowd. Heads are turning, smiles are brightening, and Clay Jackson is walking into the room.
Even out of his uniform, in just a fitted Colts jacket and dark jeans, he looks every bit the team captain. His stride is smooth, measured, and there's a quiet magnetism to him that has the entire room reacting like a ripple effect.
The social media team is on him in an instant, the glow of their phone screens bouncing off his sharp features. He handles it all with a calm smile, his nods and polite responses giving absolutely nothing away.
"Damn, for a guy who barely says shit, he's real good at stealing the attention." Wes chuckles when he notices me staring at Clay. "If I became captain, would you stare at me more?"
"What?" I ask, struggling to process his words. "Wes—I stare at you plenty. As does everyone else."
He's silent again, and I'm just about to ask what the hell is up with him tonight when I notice movement in the corner of my eye.
It's Scarlett again, slipping in and out of the crowd as she adjusts her bag on her shoulder like she's leaving.
Oh fuck, she's leaving.
She's heading straight for the door, which is currently surrounded by Clay and the rest of the buzzing VIPs and management team.
And then it's like I have a front-row seat at the film of the damn year.
Scarlett is suddenly heading right for Clay, like she's changed her mind about leaving. He notices her a second too late, his blue eyes just finding her face as she wraps a hand around his neck and pulls him down to her lips.
Wes and I are both silent for a second. And then Wes is lifting a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. I'm still completely stunned, watching as Clay and Scarlett go at each other for a second.
His arm curls around her, hand placed low on her back, and he pulls her up into him.
The kiss goes crazy.
Like Clay devours her, right there in front of everyone, like he's suffocating and she's fresh air.
Everyone is staring at them. Everyone is completely stunned.
Then Scarlett pulls back, flashes him a grin, and turns to the crowd.
"Sorry everyone—just had to congratulate my man," she says with so much ease that I start believing it's true.
But then I blink because no the fuck it's not.
"What. The. Fuck," I say, gripping onto Wes' forearm like it's the only thing keeping me up. "What just—did you—have you—"
"I had no fucking clue, Cam." Wes is still laughing as Clay holds Scarlett around the waist, keeping her against him as he returns to the conversation he was having with the group of people around him.
They look like a couple. An actual couple that has been together for months—years.
Wes whistles low. "Well, damn."
"Wes, this isn't funny."
"It's kind of funny," Wes chuckles as I turn back to him with a scowl. "What? At least it was your roommate he's kissing and not you."
I pause, blinking at him.
He shrugs, "What?"
I lift a hand toward him and scrunch my fingers, "...Unbelievable."
And I walk away from him, leaving him chuckling at the damn snack table while I go to investigate this shitstorm.
It's a shock, yeah—but honestly so much better than kicking Logan in the balls.